Having lived in a society where the free expression of ideas was forbidden, I found it exhilarating to exercise my right to free speech in such an overt way. We marched, chanted, and waved our banners—and I took pictures—as the police watched. To me it was a display of democracy at its finest.
A meeting had been arranged with the president of the International Olympic Committee. When I was introduced to him, he gently cradled my hand between both of his and said, “Well now, it certainly is a pleasure to meet the most famous daughter in the world.”
What a bizarre notion. The whole experience seemed wonderfully absurd. To march in a protest at the age of sixteen was strange enough, and doing so at the request of a European government official added to the peculiarity. But to be called “the most famous daughter in the world” by the IOC president felt like an outlandish dream. Most of the time my life was so ordinary, and then there were moments like this.
Following my initial DSG treatment, my lupus continued to remain fairly stable with the help of regular infusions. Every few months, Mom and I flew to Munich for another ten-day treatment. My teachers helped me through the lessons I missed while I was away, as did my friends. Even so, I was upset at having to tear myself away from school shortly after the start of my junior year.
The beginning of the school year was always full of excitement. I relished the joyful reunions with friends I’d missed all summer and the fun of nesting in the dorms. All the important decisions had to be made—where to hang which posters and how to configure our furniture to maximize the hominess of our rooms. Then, as we began to settle into our routine, came the excitement of homecoming week. A theme was picked, halftime entertainment was planned, and the homecoming court was chosen. I felt cheated to be spending those moments sitting in a clinic in Germany.
The evening I returned to school, my friends had been watching out their windows for me. My roommate ran downstairs to welcome me back and help carry my bags. Our chipper voices echoed through the stairwell as we raced to cram two weeks’ worth of updates into four flights worth of stairs. Reaching our floor, she opened the door, and I stepped into the hallway where my friends had gathered. At the first sight of me, they cheered in unison, “Congratulations, Maht!” They engulfed me in hugs and laughter. Above their heads hung a hand-drawn banner that read, “Maht Congrats Rep ’98!”
While I was away, my roommates had led a campaign to get me elected as a representative to our homecoming court. My mind was reeling. How could this be? My classmates had really voted for me—the quiet girl who scurried through school staring at her watch, hoping to remain invisible? As the news sank in, I felt humbled and exhilarated.
Almost immediately the question came. “Who’s going to escort you onto the football field?” The rep’s dad usually locked arms with his daughter and proudly walked her onto the field at the big homecoming football game. That was clearly not an option for me.
My friends generously offered up their fathers to stand in for mine. But for me there was never a question of who would escort me. Mom was my universal parent and she would do it. The question kept coming, however, and when it finally came from the dean, I realized this could become an issue. So I went to see the school president.
He greeted me with a warm smile and his congratulations. “So,” he said cheerfully, “what’s on your mind?”
“I want to talk with you about homecoming. Everyone keeps asking me who will walk me onto the field.”
He interrupted me before I had finished my rehearsed argument. “Your mom, naturally,” he said with a sly grin.
“Oh, okay, right,” I stammered, breathing a sigh of relief.
“It’ll be nice to see her. She must be quite happy to hear that you were chosen to represent your class.”
“Yes, she is. Thank you.” I left his office with a spring in my step. I didn’t have to disappoint Mom.
When the night came, Mom and I stood arm in arm behind the bleachers, waiting to be introduced. I wore a sleeveless emerald-green gown with a matching shawl. When it was our turn, we strolled out onto the football field and turned to face the stands. We were met with thunderous applause: “One-nine-nine-eight—we’re the class of ninety-eight. Wahoo!” “We love you Maht!” “And Mrs. Mahmoody,” someone added. I stood, arm hooked with Mom’s, gazing back at the most beautiful site . . . my MLS family.
All I could think was, My cup runneth over. In that moment, my heart was bursting with gratitude for the chaos of my youth. Had it not been for the evil acts of my father, I never would have ended up at Salem. If not for Salem, I wouldn’t have known about MLS. If not for Mom’s plan to move to Alpena and my stubborn insistence on stability, I wouldn’t have had the courage to take the plunge. That one surreal and wonderful moment was the culmination of a lifetime of decisions forced by difficult situations. In that moment, there was nothing in my heart but gratitude.
It was this same attitude of gratitude that had captured the attention of a documentary film crew from Germany. After learning of my battle with lupus and the experimental treatment that saved my life, they came to do a piece on me. What intrigued them most was what they saw as my sunny outlook in the face of such a seemingly overwhelming obstacle.
The producers thought mine was a story that needed to be told, that other teenagers needed this type of positive example. But I didn’t see myself as a role model, nor did I see myself as extraordinary in any way. I was simply coping with lupus the way I had coped with my dad’s brutality—by finding the good in the bad and trusting that God had a bigger plan than I could see from my vantage point. I couldn’t take any credit for that. I was simply living as I had been taught by the optimistic people God had placed in my life.
Several days into the filming, the crew and I headed to the park across the street from our house for an interview. The producer and I chatted as we strolled on the gravel path that wound its way through the trees along the river’s edge. A cameraman walked backward in front of us, capturing the scene, while a still photographer snapped away from just outside of the shot. Another man kept pace while holding a boom mic above our heads. As he walked he constantly glanced back and forth between us and the block of audio-monitoring gadgetry that hung over his shoulder.
It dawned on me as we walked and talked that maybe this was why God had allowed me to have lupus. Because of the success of Mom’s books, I had a voice that people were willing to listen to, whether I felt the need to talk or not. In that moment I was overcome by a surreal and comforting sense that God was unrolling a tiny corner of the canvas and giving me just the slightest glimpse of his purpose in my life.
DSG had saved my life. There was absolutely no question in my mind about that. There was also no question in my mind that countless others could benefit from this drug. Maybe I had been given a voice so that I could use it in that very moment to shine a light on a treatment that could possibly eradicate autoimmune disease.
About that time, Mom had been asked to do an interview on a Turkish television program. She agreed, but because Turkey had an extradition agreement with Iran, the interview was shot in Paris. After filming, the crew flew back to Turkey to air the piece while Mom remained in Paris to do a live Q&A. During the interview, Mom was told that the Iranian government, after learning she would be interviewed, had demanded that a statement from my father also be included.
I was at our house alone except for one of my roommates. It was my first time to spend a weekend without an adult. It seemed that every time Mom and I began to get complacent, something would happen to remind us that my dad still posed a threat.
Mom made the dreaded phone call. “Mahtob, I don’t want to worry you, but . . .” I knew anything that started out with that phrase meant it was indeed time to worry.
“Everything is going to be fine,” she assured me. “We just need to be on our guard. Check the doors and windows. Close the blinds. Set the alarm, and don’t answer the door for anyone. If you’re the least bit uneasy, call the
police. It’s better to be safe than sorry.”
“Got it. Don’t worry about me. I know the drill. Call me as soon as the interview is finished so I know you’re safe.”
I knew that Mom was staying at the Hôtel Balzac, which was about as safe a place as any for her given the circumstances. The staff of the hotel knew us well and had always taken superb care of us.
Once we had been there when someone threw a canister of tear gas into the lobby. It quickly wafted through the entire hotel, sending everyone for the exits. Mom and I knew we needed to evacuate but didn’t know if the incident was aimed at us or not. If we left our room, we might be walking straight into a trap. The hotel staff, anticipating our concern, escorted us through the narrow corridors used only by employees and out a side door to a waiting car. My eyes burned and my chest ached as I gasped for air. Mom and I sat in the car coughing as we watched other guests pour out the front door.
In retrospect, I didn’t think that incident had anything to do with us, and I was glad the hotel staff had reacted so quickly and resourcefully. But still I couldn’t help worrying. Often we traveled with bodyguards, but on this trip Mom was alone.
I jumped when the phone rang. A man asked, “Is this Betty Mahmoody?” He had an accent, but I couldn’t place it.
“Who’s calling, please?” I had been trained never to identify myself over the phone for a stranger and never to admit that Mom wasn’t home. Until I knew who was on the other end of the line, my mission was to gather information while giving away none myself.
Demanding to speak with Mom, the man told me his name, which I didn’t recognize. He claimed he was calling from Australia, that his children had been kidnapped by their mother, and that Mom was working on his case. There was something off-putting about him, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what was bothering me. Was it simply his sense of entitlement, or was there something more sinister at play?
“I’d be happy to take down your number,” I offered.
“She’s got my number, and I’ve got yours,” he hissed threateningly and hung up. His response shook me, but I also knew the strain experienced by left-behind parents. It could simply be that he had reached his breaking point and that his call just happened to coincide with the Iranian government’s intrusion in my life.
A few minutes later the phone rang again. This was the era before caller ID. Again I ran to the phone, praying to hear Mom’s voice on the line. “Hello,” I said tentatively.
“Put Betty Mahmoody on the line.”
“Sir, I am happy to take a messa—” He hung up before I had finished.
Right away the phone rang again. This time it was Mom.
“What happened?” I demanded. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Is everything all right there?” Her voice sounded tense. Something was clearly going on, but she didn’t want to worry me.
“Everything’s fine here. Are you working with a man on an Australian case?”
“Yes, why?”
“Good,” I laughed. “That’s a relief. He keeps calling, and there’s something strange about him. I didn’t want to be paranoid, but given everything else that’s going on, I was starting to get a little worried. His accent isn’t Australian. Where’s he from?”
“He’s Scandinavian. There is something off about him, but he’s legitimate, and I’m sure he doesn’t have anything to do with your dad or the Iranian government.”
“So what’s going on there? How did the interview go? What was the statement?”
“He said that you are Iranian and that you have the blood of Fatimah. You are Muslim, and he’s not going to allow you to be anything but Muslim.”
“Well, that’s nice,” I said sarcastically. “Here I thought he might say he misses me and he hopes I’m happy. Guess I should have known better.”
“Mahtob, I don’t want you to worry, but I think we need to be really careful right now.”
Only later would I learn the rest of the story of that night. Mom had been doing the Q&A by phone from the Hôtel Balzac. Someone who identified himself as my dad’s nephew Reza called in, alleging that my dad was in Paris looking for her. It was in the middle of the night, and people from the Turkish program advised Mom to move to a different hotel immediately. She frantically began to pack, then realized my dad could be waiting just outside the hotel. She pushed furniture in front of the door and told the desk clerk not to let anyone in to see her. Then she called the American embassy, which refused to let her in until morning. Having no other options, she waited out the night.
At six the next morning she called Antoine, one of her French publishers. She was embarrassed to admit she was in Paris. Because she would be there only long enough to do the interview, she hadn’t told Antoine she was coming. But when she explained the situation, he immediately came to the hotel with a car, driver, and security personnel. He made flight arrangements, took her to the airport, and waited with her to be sure she made it safely out of the country.
This was the first direct message we had received from my dad since our escape. It left me feeling defiant. I found some sort of perverse satisfaction in knowing that while he was in Iran ranting about my being Muslim, I was, of my own choosing, attending a Lutheran boarding school. I had surrounded myself with other Christians. I studied the Bible. I didn’t cover. I wore makeup. I attended school dances, where I danced with boys. After high school, I planned to attend a Lutheran college, and I hoped to someday be a Lutheran elementary school teacher.
It was empowering to see how pathetic his attempt was at exerting control over me. At the same time I trembled with the knowledge that even just one of my many egregious offenses could, in his mind, justify extreme action. Nevertheless, I pushed the thought from my head and carried on with life as usual.
One evening during my senior year, my roommate dragged me to “the commons” to watch TV. The commons weren’t nearly as frightening to me now as they had been in my early days at MLS. That night it was packed with students lounging sideways in chairs with legs dangling over the armrests, sitting atop the brick ledge that lined the room, or even sprawling on the floor—all staring up at the TV that was suspended from the ceiling. I grimaced as one show finished and an episode of South Park started. It was a crude cartoon with a sense of humor I didn’t appreciate.
Turning my attention away from the TV, I joined a conversation with some friends. We were chattering away when all of a sudden I realized that the room had fallen unusually silent. The only sounds were the whiny, high-pitched voices of the characters bouncing around the screen. No one moved. Every eye was focused on the television. My face reddened with embarrassment as I realized what was happening.
It took one of the jocks to say it out loud. “Whoa, Maht, they’re talking about you!” he blurted.
I almost never watched TV in the commons, and I never watched South Park. What were the chances I would be sitting there at precisely the moment they did a vulgar parody of my story? I was mortified.
Finally, someone said what they were all thinking. “Come on, Maht. You’ve got to see the humor in it. Sure, it’s sick and wrong, but South Park is doing a parody of you. That’s pretty stinkin’ amazing.”
I had to give them that. It wasn’t a distinction I prized, but I supposed, in some circles, it could be seen as an honor. The guys on the football team sure seemed to think it was “awesome.”
My years at MLS were virtually carefree. I was relatively healthy, conflict was scarce, and security concerns were at a minimum. Mom’s health challenges had endured just long enough to solidify my resolve to stay at MLS, and her recovery period had given her ample time to assess her life. The years of intense travel coupled with the emotional stress of her constant battle against child abduction had taken their toll on her body. She decided it was time to slow down. After I moved to MLS, she couldn’t bring herself to move to Alpena full time. It was too far away from me. So she divided her time between our old house and the house in Alpena.<
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Many of my classmates lived quite far away. Some were from other states, even other countries. Since Mom lived only forty-five minutes from school, my house became their home away from home. On Fridays Mom would collect a carload of girls and laundry. The consummate hostess, she was in her element with a houseful of eager mouths to feed. The cafeteria food at MLS was actually good, but after a week of eating off a buffet, nothing tasted as amazing as a home-cooked meal. Weekends at my house became such a pivotal part of our high school experience that much of my graduating class listed “weekends at Maht’s” or “Maht’s mom’s cooking” in our senior yearbook as one of their favorite MLS memories.
Our days, whether spent in the dorms or visiting someone’s family home on a weekend, were filled with laughter. The intensity of our high school years added to the strength of the friendships we forged—more than friends, we became family, bonded by Christ and the experiences we shared.
As a homesick freshman, I wouldn’t have believed that leaving MLS would be one of the most difficult hurdles I would ever face. But my teachers and friends and the consistency of the lessons taught from a Christian worldview had restored the stability lost with my graduation from Salem.
CHAPTER 21
Some days in life are sad; others are heartbreaking. To me, my graduation from Michigan Lutheran Seminary fell in the latter category. As graduation approached, my friends and I dreaded the fateful milestone. For us it marked the end of a utopian era. Even the word commencement irked me. It did not feel like a beginning.
My friends Hannah and Mollie set a reverential tone for the ceremony with a piano and organ duet of Bach’s “Sheep May Safely Graze.” Engulfed in the doleful melody, the rest of my classmates and I filed into the auditorium in pairs arranged by height. Being one of the shortest, I was among the last to enter. When we stood and turned to sing our class hymn, I was front and center.
My Name Is Mahtob: The Story That Began the Global Phenomenon Not Without My Daughter Continues Page 16